


Making it mean something

by Insaneroot



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Call it a post-canon suggestion, F/M, Franks POV, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content, Smut, first some Flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insaneroot/pseuds/Insaneroot
Summary: "I want there to be an after for you."Three times they had to part (1x05, 1x10, 2x10) and one time they didn't.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	Making it mean something

##### Waterside (1x05)

At this point she was everything. Not that he didn't care for anyone else, not that Lieberman wasn't growing on him or that the kids and wife he left behind didn't cut into his shot-up heart like shards of a shattered mirror. Not that he wasn't still ruined, putting himself back together, standing on stilts made of what had been robbed from him. But she was the foundation he balanced on. When he was throwing himself into gunfire, blindly, just seeing how far he could get in pursuit of some justice he thought he should want, following a blind instinct for revenge, every time he was half dead, there was really only one thing he thought he may be leaving behind.  
  
She was angry, now. He was angry. The weakness he felt at seeing her, the longing he recognized, echoing through him from behind locked doors, had made him realize. It was better not to know what kept you standing, better not to look down. Meeting like this, in the darkness by the water, had brought it into the light. When she had hugged him, back when he came to her about Micro, he'd suspected. It had taken him by surprise, how long since he had been touched so simply? Whatever was unspoken between them, it was like an open wound.  
  
She wanted there to be an "after" for him. It threw him off. He didn't even know how to imagine it. He needed her to understand that her trust in the power of truth would not be enough to save her, he needed her to understand the ruthlessness with which whatever light she hoped to shed would be extinguished, her with it. It was him who had dragged her into it, and though he knew better, he had hoped he could get her to back out. Now that he knew, with himself, what kept him going, the thought of losing her felt like another impending death.  
  
She was looking at the ground. He couldn't bear it. He wanted to pull her close to him, to shake her or console her, to make sure she understood why he couldn't let her get hurt. He wanted her to look at him, goddamnit. He knew he was moving closer, he just wanted her to look up and show him that she understood. The cold wind blew strands of her golden hair towards him. She was close enough to shelter him from some of it, close enough that he smelled her perfume now, crisp on the air. He was surprised by his own instinct, but he knew to follow it.  
  
He was calling on the unspoken things between them like a final plead for mercy as he kissed her cheek, softly, his lips a little dry and her cheek a little cold, soft. Time slowed down, then, his nose brushing against her skin, his face sheltered in the heat emanating off her neck, wispy strands of her hair tickling him. Then the moment passed. He thought he left that soft part of himself there with her, as he disappeared into the night once more, not looking back.

-

#####    
Elevator (1x10)

This was everything he had hoped to avoid. The worst possible outcome. He had the thought first when lying next to her on the floor, reaching out for her, the dust settling. Before then it had been instinct and strategy, all of it. Pure purpose, no thoughts that weren't actions. Keep her safe. Keep her safe.  
  
Her skin was hot under his, her pulse beating into his hand. Catching her eyes, seeing her there. Getting up, helping her up. Touching her carefully, checking for injuries. Them both dazed, time slow. His calloused skin, shards and shrapnel, the armored vest and all the bullets in it, the blood on his face staining her silk shirt. How impossibly soft she was, between all of the rough of him. And still no end to it. Boy, blown to bits. Police waiting.  
  
"Hey!" she called, still catching her breath, determined look in her eye as he paused by the door to look back at her. It was a good plan, it was a way out, but he could hardly bear it. For all of her softness, all of her faith, her bravery was just another kind from his. Never blind, he saw. She was there, in her body, all of the time - she didn't turn a switch and hope adrenaline would carry her through the hard way.  
  
He was thinking too much. He was bleeding, hard. He was feeling too much, adrenaline gone, his whole body echoing against the gentleness as he pressed her back to his chest.  
"I'm going to have to be rough, Karen." He whispered into her neck, his voice hoarse. "I'll keep a gun to your head. Can you do it?"  
He felt her nod, her hair catching in his stubble, sticking to some of the drying blood. He lifted the gun slowly, in his left hand, connecting it under her chin and feeling her wince under the cold metal barrel. He pressed her closer to him. He couldn't help but breathe her in.  
  
"Okay," he breathed. "Tell them don't shoot." He pushed her through the door, feeling all of her against him. His right arm hung by his side, almost useless from the embedded shrapnel. They breathed in tandem. He barely heard the words of the detective. He didn't look at them. He was with her, waiting for her response, listening for fear in her heartbeat or breathing. But even through the tension, it felt like she was leaning into him. More than she needed to. Like he was safe and the police were the danger.  
  


When the elevator doors closed and he let go of her, they both fell to lean against the walls. He heard the fear in the relief of her breath, then, while he was breathing in pain. She looked at him, a smile creeping in that he couldn't return, yet, but her small reach for him, so soon after they had been close as can be, was healing.  
  
She stopped the elevator. He handed her the gun. He was dizzy, his field of vision decreased, his eyes couldn't follow when he turned his head. Jumping to push out the escape hatch nearly knocked him out, his blood pressure too low. She said his name. There were many things he would have done to stay with her, to huddle up on the elevator floor, sleep it off with her by his side. He wanted to apologize for what he had done to her, and for the fact that he couldn't stay.  
  
She filled his whole field of vision, the edges of her blurry, but her eyes clear. She had a hand on his chest, on his shoulder, barely hovering, putting no weight on him. The end seemed close. He looked at her mouth, looked in her eyes, at the blood on her face, at her mouth again. There was so little of him left. He was drunk on pain, and on her, and he wanted-. He wanted to close the last of the distance, to kiss her, to make something good out of - this. But time was running out. And he wanted something better for her, he wanted an end to the pain rather than suspension of it, he wanted to win, to have an after.  
  
He leaned his forehead against hers. Her mouth was so close. It wasn't innocent, to him it was a promise he didn't know if he could keep. He would need to survive first.  
"Go on," she whispered, barely audibly, drawing away from him. He tried to make the promise with his eyes. He hoped she could read it in him the way he read her.

-

#####    
Hospital (2x10)

"You cannot keep loving people in your dreams," she said, and then, "You could choose to love someone else."  
  
Her words hit him like shotgun fire. He said the only thing he could think of that would drive her away, and then regretted it. Seeing her again, him being who he was now. It had been the truth when he told her she should walk away, and it had been the truth when she said she knew he didn't want her to go. The thing was, he had tried to have his after. Some of it. He wasn't just built of the shrapnel of his past anymore, he had more now. Curtis, Amy. Beth, even considering what he had brought on her. It might just be a new hell, but he wasn't there alone.  
  
They had slipped right back into it, her hand in his. Her faith in him unwavering, bringing him back from the abyss he was staring into. He wouldn't have trusted those words from anyone but her. But he knew himself now. There still was no after, he had been delusional to hope. For him there was only in-betweens. He couldn't be who she deserved.  
  


There was no secrets between them, anymore, no pretending. The wound bleeding all over the place, the only one the doctors couldn't close. "It doesn't change the way I feel about you," she had said, when he least wanted to hear it. But it had been said, more than once and in more than one way, now. He thought that this time, maybe, he could have it. His sliver of After. What the hell, he could bring that memory with him, make it mean something that she had come, like she dared him to.  
  
He sat up in the bed, his handcuffs and bonds loosened. Gathered his senses, wished he could be clear-headed for once, with her. He got up, scuffled across the floor to her, reached out. She touched his shoulder, his chest again, as she had back in the elevator. His eyes didn't promise her anything this time, but sought purity in her, forgiveness, begged for a moment's solace. She leaned towards him as well, they fit in each other's space in such a fluid manner. It had been spoken, now, they were allowed -  
  
the sound of Amy clearing her throat interrupted them. That fucking kid. But maybe it was for the better.

-

#####    
A little bit of an After

He was in-between. Lost off the surface of the Earth, Billy dead, Madani out of country. Amy safe, Curtis living a peaceful life. Frank was alive, working. No rest for the wicked, no light at the end of the tunnel, no point to his existence other than wielding the weapon of himself, watching criminals and making their deaths look like anything but his work. He was on cleaning duty, a whispered name, keeping fear in the hearts of those without honor. Sleeping under bridges and in abandoned warehouses for a while, he had finally managed to find a place, though he had no name on any lease and never went back if he suspected a tail. Someone in the building had a kid, and the walls were thin. He couldn't bring trouble.  
  
He heard a scuffle on the floor of what sounded like his apartment as he was coming up the stairs, and drew his gun immediately, considering his options for avoiding gunfire inside. When had he slipped? The door was just slightly ajar as he approached and heard a voice call his name.  
  
"It's me, Frank."  
  
He stopped dead in his tracks, lowering the gun. He'd recognize her voice anywhere.  
"I would have shot you, Karen," he huffed. She was standing in his bare living room, nothing there but a mattress, arms crossed, waiting. When he entered she rushed to him and pulled him into a hug, and he gave in and reciprocated, breathing her in, cursing in his head.  
"I was careful," she said into his shoulder. She didn't let go for a while.  
  
"Are you all right?" He asked when she let go, taking a moment to feel the heat they had made between them dissipate into the chill of the unheated apartment. He closed the door behind him and stepped back into the room with her. He didn't have a seat to offer her. She looked unharmed, hugging herself and still wearing hear long cream trench coat. Her hair was a little longer, the rose gold more prominent in the low light.  
  
"Why are you here, Karen?" he repeated. "Are you okay? What's going on?"  
"I'm fine," she said quickly, turning to look at him, wringing her hands. "I'm not done."  
"You're not done with what?"  
He remembered clearly their last moments with each other. He'd had no hope for any future, he had been giving in, been selfish, almost, considering the danger Amy had been in, considering what Madani was putting on the line. He had just wanted a moment. And now he had a moment. In his in-between, before everything went to shit again, again. A dangerous door to open, but he was longing to.  
  
"I'm not done with you." She said, stopped wringing her hands and looked up at him, determined. "I'm not..." - she stepped closer to him again, lifting her hand to reach for his chest, one more time. "... Not done with this."  
He looked at her face, trying to sort out his situation, his feelings. Was there any reason they shouldn't? If she felt it too, still?  
"Karen, you know what I can and can't give you?" he said, voice deep and trembling, slightly.  
"All I want is a shot," she said, stepping closer, both hands on his chest now, face looking up. He lifted his hand to cradle her face, and she leaned into it, eyes closed for a moment, brow a little furrowed. When she opened her eyes again he leaned in, closer, closing the distance as he had dreamt, kissing her slowly, softly. Just once, feeling her lips pressed against his, small and soft, ready.  
  
When he broke the kiss, their foreheads still pressed together, his hand on her neck still keeping her close, the air between them was charged. They both felt it, the intensity building, and the second time he kissed her harder, pushing her a step back in surprise, using his other hand to hold her tight around her waist and guide her. He shivered under her cold hands, already under his open jacket, and kept pushing her backwards, kiss never broken, until they hit wall. He collided into her, pressing his body to hers, remembering back to the first time he had felt her like this, the way she had leaned into him as she played his hostage. Now he had her, as close as she would have him, and he was fully present, no wounds to mention, no clock ticking to pull them apart.  
  
He grabbed her face, a little rough, and charged himself in the tension between them, the daring look in her eye, kissing her again as she pulled the jacket over his shoulders and off of him, exposing him to the cold. He put his hand around her throat, gently but insistent, leaning in and increasing the pressure until they were joined again, and his hand fell from her throat to the hem of her silk shirt, his fingers finding their way under the fabric to touch the skin of her waist. Where did this intensity come from? The waiting? Every touch before now had been gentle, so much between them built on meeting in their care for each other.  
  
"Karen?" he whispered between breaths, catching her gaze, her cheeks blushed, eyes shining, strands of hair falling into her face. She was staring at him so intensely, that determined wide-eyed look that he had thought was for other occasions. She shrugged off her coat, threw it to the side, and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt to lift it off. He grabbed her wrists and held them, tilting his head to look in her face, look for her behind her eyes. When she lifted her chin to look at him, he saw the determination fade, a brief flicker of insecurity that pained him, and, as he held her gaze, held her wrists, she came back to him, the care and wonder growing in her eyes as she understood what he was looking for.  
  
"Stay with me, Karen." he whispered, smiling, and she conceded. He'd kissed other women, waiting for her. Sarah, and Beth. One had been as much an accident as anything, the other had drawn him in. But he hadn't known her. He knew Karen, he was touching her on purpose, because he had been waiting to, because he had wanted to for so long. He didn't want it to feel like just any rough tumble.  
  
He kissed her again, softly, letting it grow, tasting her, still holding her wrists. She was sweet, a taste or a scent of vanilla, a faint faint hint of spearmint somewhere there, like a preparation in hope. Knowing that she wanted and hoped for him the same way he wanted and hoped for her woke him. She made a faint sound in recognition of him growing to her, and he let go of her wrists to pull his t-shirt off himself, breathing heavily and tugging her skirt up to her hip in a swift motion, grabbing the back of her thighs and lifting her up, pressing her against the wall.  
  
He was drunk on her, dizzy like he was losing blood, ravenous to have her in any way, every way, for a long time, for ever. She pulled her silk shirt off herself, filling the air with the scent of her, making her arms rise with goosebumps, and the nipples of her small, perky breasts rise immediately under the white lace bralette. He put his face to her breastbone, inhaling her, and bit the skin there. He wanted to touch more of her, couldn't get enough. His hands were on her waist, the force with which he pressed her to the wall keeping her up, her legs spread and locked around him, the heat and wetness of her innermost parts emanating through her underwear and tights onto the skin of his stomach.  
  
His coarse palms against the fine skin of her waist and stomach, grabbing tightly onto any excess, moving to grab her neck and cradle one of her breasts, fingers sliding under the bralette to find fresh, soft skin, the movement of him against her becoming rhythmical, pushing her up the wall with his hips, letting her feel the rock hard erection he was packing, grinding it against her and emulating that for which they were both longing. He wanted her tights off.  
  
He grabbed back onto her thighs and let her down, slowly, gliding to his knees before her, undoing the skirt and letting it fall, grabbing the waist of her tights and pulling them down, looking up at her, his face close to the center of her, breathing in her desire as the scent of it was bared to the open. She stepped out of the tights, carefully lifting each foot as he drew the tights off her, waiting, freezing.  
  
"I want you on the bed, Karen." he said, looking up at her, and even now, she blushed as he leaned his face against her inner thigh and breathed in, her chest rising and falling fast. He got on his feet and kissed her, soft and sweet again, taking her hand and leading her out of the pile of her clothes by the wall, onto the bed. While the mattress was old, the sheets were as new as his arrival there, still clean, the scent still impersonal.  
  
He guided her down onto it, crawling on top of her, pushing her backwards towards its middle with his body, a hand under her back to support her. Her hot skin against his chest, the two of them there - he kissed her again, patiently, lovingly. She had gotten quiet, her eyes big, watching him where he went to kiss her stomach, to tilt the lace to the side and kiss her small breast. He could feel her whole body tensing when he went lower, her hand grasping onto his arm beside her.  
  
"Yes, Karen?" he said, buried in her, as she grabbed his upper arm more insistently, sitting up. He looked up to be face to face with her, her big eyes, her slightly open, small mouth panting, well kissed. "I just -" she breathed. "I want you now."  
  
It took him aback when she pushed him over gently, sat herself across him and undid his belt buckle and pants while he watched, propped up on his elbows. He kicked off his shoes, they got his pants off in a joint effort, and she got back on top of him, only the cloth of their underwear separating them. She looked at him while she grabbed his cock from his boxers, let it free, and guided her own panties to the side and led him inside her, sitting down onto him with a small moan. She was so wet for him, her whole body longing to take him in, and she slid him into her fully, until he could feel her wetness at the bottom of his shaft, her legs spreading wider on top of him to open herself more.  
  
As she shivered, from him or from the cold, she clenched around him, and he drew in a sharp breath, reaching out for her hand and intertwining their fingers as she began riding him, slowly, precisely, her eyes closed. She moaned with every move against him, squeezing his hand, lost in him, inflicting him on herself so willingly. He grabbed onto her waist with his other hand, squeezing the flesh hard, guiding her movement against him, pressing her down onto him.

He wanted her even closer. He wanted to push into her, to have her squirm under him. He grabbed onto her and changed their position again, pushing her into the mattress, grabbing under her knee to guide one leg on top of his shoulder, the other around his waist. She was taking him so well. He grabbed onto her neck again, looked in her eyes as he started squeezing and she started gasping, pushing himself deeper into her at the same time, slowly, but deep as he could go, pushing in and waiting, feeling not just the movement but their interconnectedness in that moment, the fact that he was truly inside her, filling her up.  
  
He let go of her neck to support himself on the bed and start pushing harder, a little faster, and she grabbed onto his back, scratching into it, clinging to him as he put his weight into her, pounding himself into her with their foreheads together. As the speed of his pounding increased, her moans became a continued whimpering, and, as she clenched around him, a soundless scream, mouth open, head tilted back and nails digging into him. When she came back to him, a gasp, as he came with her, filling her with a wave of his seed, spilling it out inside her as they were completely together.  
  
They stayed in the moment, felt it, as the waves subsided, their eyes found each other with relief and disbelief. He kissed her, rosy and flushed under him, and fell to his side beside her, after a short moment propping himself up to look at her face, smiling, moving a strand of hair out of the way. She was out of breath too, smiling, at him, her skin starting to react to the cold of the room, and he pulled the duvet up from the end of the bed to cover them both, and drew her into him, spooning her, kissing her shoulder, burying his face in her neck and giving her small kisses, saying, "We'll go again. Just let me have this."


End file.
